Prelude
by Rachael-Rose
Summary: A sort of opener for a new multiDoctorTorchwood series. One person's actions influence the lives of people they never expected.
1. Chapter 1

High above London – as high as you could get without a zeppelin – a woman sat in silence, watching the stars. There were not as many here in the city, where the bright lights would drown them out before they had the chance to begin shining, and she regretted not being able to go to the country. Ideally, she would be sat upon a deserted hill out in the countryside, with no lights to compete against the beauty of the skies. Cursing the affliction that had left her like this, she reflected bitterly that regardless of how much she _wanted_ to be there, it was quite impossible. Solitude would be unachievable if she had to take someone to push her chair.

Photographs sat unlooked-at in the woman's lap. Faded, dog-eared snapshots that were a source of amusement to all those who saw them, but not to her. To others they were a retro relic, two-dimensional and tedious. To her, they meant everything she had ever loved or been, and she clung to them now harder than she had ever done in a life that seemed as though it had gone on forever. Most were pictures of her, taken at varying stages throughout her life. The latest was ten years old; since the illness had returned, she had permitted no photographs to be taken of her, but even then she had insisted it be taken on an ancient Polaroid. None of this hologram nonsense.

It was likely, she thought, that others would be doing the same as her now. A meteor shower was forecast for tonight, due to begin any moment now. It was just past midnight, but it was summer, and the air was warm and heavy.

She wished she could go home. Tightening her grip on the pictures reminded her of it, and she found herself recalling her friends and her family. Now, of course, home didn't exist, because they were all dead, and what was home without the people who made it so? She wondered if she would meet them again when this was all over, and blinking back tears, for a fraction of a second she saw her mum's face, smiling.

It was time.

Along with the photographs, in her lap lay a small cylindrical object, hidden amongst the folds of her skirt. A syringe, filled with a clear liquid. The woman stowed the pictures carefully in a complicated pocket, her gaze lingering for one last time on some more than others. She contemplated whether to take the arm or the hand, but when all was said and done, it wouldn't matter. In one movement, lest she lose her courage, she plunged the needle into her palm and watched as the fluid drained into her, relishing the almost immediate numbness that spread first up her arm, and then seemed to wash over her like a wave.

Before the ability to move her neck left her, she relaxed and turned her eyes to the night sky. The stars were beginning to fall, dropping from the sky like burning tears. The faint sound of a zeppelin droned in her ears, but to the dying woman it sounded like singing, and as the breath left her, she felt herself taken by the hand, pulled, and rejoiced at her rediscovered freedom.

And then, there was nothing but darkness, and a familiar face glowing like torchlight.


	2. Chapter 2

Somewhere beneath a sleeping city, in a place very few knew existed, a man lay in darkness. He knew neither where he was, nor how long he had been there; it might have been three hours or three years, but he wasn't ready to leave just yet. An intuition honed over unnatural years was telling him that there was something to be done here, and so he waited patiently.

He thought of very little, and upon realising this, he was surprised. Surely sitting in nothing with nothing to do would have bored him – but no. The silence was oddly peaceful, and a chaotic soul welcomed the chance to simply sit (or perhaps stand, he didn't know) and listen to it.

He could not begin to guess at when she appeared. Time did not exist here. But out of the darkness, as though it had always been there, her face appeared, and thought the man felt he should recognise her, he had never seen this woman before. Her long black hair draped like a thick shawl around her shoulders, wide blue eyes stared at him in something resembling surprise, and her archaic, almost Victorian, style of dress lent her the air of a widow-woman. This woman was too young to be a widow, he thought, but he could be wrong. It felt as though anything were possible in a place like this.

She continued approaching until she stood close, looking up at him in quiet shock and recognition, and the growing feeling that he should know her began to annoy him. Suddenly, the woman's sad face broke into smiles and disbelieving laughter.

"I can walk!"

He did not know what to say in reply.

"Look at me, I can walk!"

Clearly, she was overjoyed to see him, and he hated to shatter the moment, but he had to ask:

"Who are you?"

The woman looked confused, a little hurt. "You don't remember me." The man shook his head in unspoken apology.

The woman did not reply. She looked over her shoulder, as if she could see something that he could not, and when she turned back there was fear on her face.

"Don't let me go back," she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper.

And before the man could reply, her arm was pulled backwards by an invisible hand, and she stumbled unwillingly in the direction she had come, vanishing into darkness, and the last he heard was a cry of, 'No!'


	3. Chapter 3

It was a strange thing; the way that relative peace could turn to chaos within the blink of an eye. An uneventful journey became a rollercoaster as the ship shuddered once, twice, and was then reduced to what its pilot could describe only as 'suffering a fit'. Thrown from one place to another so quickly that she could barely grasp a rail or a strut, his terrified companion yelled for him to do something, but like her he was trying to cling to the nearest stationary object.

As movement ceased and the ship groaned, they found themselves lulled into a sense of security that was short-lived. It began again, stronger than before, and with it came a screeching akin to nails down a chalkboard, amplified into pain instead of mere discomfort. The young woman didn't know whether to hold her hands to her ears or to cling to the handrail. Her decision was made for her when the room spun violently, loosening her hold (or potential hold) on either one, and she crashed head first into the base of the control panels.

He shouted for her to try and stay calm, a petition that was met with such colourful language he swore that rainbows would pour from her mouth. Grabbing at levers, swiping at switches, he attempted to bring the ship under control, but to no avail. All that he did seemed only to worsen the problem, and eventually he decided that the best either could do would be to hold on tight, and ride it out.

Bleeps came from a monitor above his head, and he struggled through the noise and convulsions of the ship to kneel and look up at the readouts now stringing across the screen. He tried to make sense of the impossible equations and predictions it was blinking at him, but it was all so hard to process at once.

"STOP!" he screamed, knowing it would do no good, but doing it anyway.

But, both to his surprise and his companion's, it _did_ stop, and all fell still. The screen went blank, and he realised that they had landed somewhere, but where exactly was a mystery. He'd have bet his right hand that it wasn't their original destination, something that ordinarily would have been nothing - an occupational hazard that poked its head above the parapets every third or fourth trip or so - but one that did not inspire confidence this time around.

But then neither did the almighty bang that followed.


End file.
